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Berkshire, England - It's comforting to know that even the aristocracy has to deal with leaky skylights and failed workmanship.

"I paid for it to be fixed," Lady Carnarvon says with a roll of her eyes towards a phantom skylight. We can't see it, because she and I are tucked away in the Morning Room, probably hundreds or, given the size of her home, possibly even thousands of feet away. We chat about the money pit any house can be.

"It pisses me off," she says quite forthrightly, peering over her cappucino with a glint in her bright blue eyes. "And now I have to call them again. It's not like I don't have other things to do with my days."

Indeed, the warm and ebulient chatelaine of the 300room Highclere Castle has a full calendar. Her home - that is, she quicky points out, her husband's family home, for the past 333 years - is the star of the TV drama Downton Abbey. Close friend and series creator Julian Fellowes spent many weekends over the years at Highclere, no doubt hatching plots between tea and tipple.

Filming the "upstairs" scenes happens between February and June, during which time some 100 cast and crew mill about Highclere's hallways and hillsides. Right now, they're about halfway to wrapping the third season. But they're nearing deadline, as July and August is reserved for house tours.

"Oh yes, just wait for June," says the eighth Countess of Carnarvon, throwing her head back to let out her characteristic soft chuckle. "They'll have one crew working inside and one outside and will be going mad trying to catch up from rain delays."

And that's why I am now quietly thanking the heavens for this cold and wet British week. There should have been filming on site this very day (and thus no media, who might ferret out future plotlines), but cast and crew have decamped to the drier Ealing Studios, where they shoot the "downstairs" servants' scenes. We decamp from the chintzchaired Morning Room to the "Saloon," or living room.

I trail after Lady C (as she is called by staff, and as do I here, for the sake of brevity, not familiarity) into the otherwise-forbidden saloon, as she searches for a pamphlet for me. Despite many drawers being banged open and shut - nobles have junk drawers just like you and me - it does not turn up.

"Wait here," she says, "while I go find it." (It is at this point I wonder whether Lady C's friendly charm might show a chink, hearing, as I do, her bellow to her personal assistant, Candice, down the hall: "CanDEECE!? Can-DEECE?! Where are the blasted brochures? Can you get me some now please." But really, without a lady's maid to fetch either Candice or brochure, I suppose one must holler in a house this size.)

It is in this moment, standing alone in the dramatic 50-foot-high light-filled saloon with its second-floor carved-stone gallery - that a sense of the surreal takes hold. If one can secretly trill, it is what I do.

I imagine the room as a set: Holding court by the fire is Dame Maggie Smith in her role as the loopily imperious Dowager Countess; seated alongside, the brilliant Penelope Wilton's nervously plucky Lady Isobel tries to hold her ground; to the side, Michelle Dockery's self-absorbed and frustrated Lady Mary preens before paramours.

Thinking of jealous friends back home, I try not to twirl like a schoolgirl pleased with this serendipity. Feet flat on the ground, I inspect the (aforementioned and currently dry) skylight, at the coats of arms that grace the gallery perimeter, at the ornate walls (which on TV look like a William Morris wallpaper but are, in fact, 17th-century Spanish gilt leather panels, but that, alas, are coming apart at the seams).

Then I realize I'm not alone; there's someone kneeling by the fireplace. Is it Daisy, the scullery maid, who realizes too late the love she could have had with William, a lesser footman? No. There aren't many maids anymore. This woman is here working for just a couple of hours, like me. In and out, no more lifelong servitude these days.

And the pragmatic Lady C prefers it that way. "Yes, I suppose properly I should be called Lady Carnarvon, but I'm glad it's not like that any more," she had said earlier. "When I am in London, for example, when I call the hairdresser I say, 'It's Fiona Carnarvon, can I have my hair cut please?' But when we're here, we have a role to play locally, and know that about 80 people still depend on Highclere for their livelihoods."

It is an exceptionally quiet room. It is the silence that comes from being deep in the country, behind thick stone walls, slight sounds buffered by enormous rugs, silk-covered walls and large down-filled divans.

But soon I hear the click of Lady C's heels as she returns, armed with a brochure for me and several for the junk drawer.

She has written this brochure, detailing the house's history; and one about the Egyptian Exhibit in the basement (her husband's great-grandfather co-discovered Tutankhamun's tomb); as well as the bestselling book Lady Almina and the Real Downton Abbey (see top of page), a recounting of the 5th Earl's enormously wealthy and controversial wife, who did turn Highclere into a hospital during World War I. In her research, Lady C continuously finds letters of thanks written to Almina from soldiers or their mothers. Just speaking of the emotion contained in those words draws the Countess to tears. "We're currently compiling a list of the soldiers who've gone through here," she says. Some accounts have it as high as 700. "So I've been reading all the letters, and I've spent absolute hours in tears."

Undaunted, she is now working on the next generation's story, that of the sixth Countess, "the New York beauty" Catherine Wendell, a wealthy American descended from both the Washington and Lee families. Cash-strapped aristocrats, having had to pay new and dibilitating taxes, took to marrying American heiresses in nothing short of business deals: I'll give you a title and a posh pad, you sign over your fortune. But it's a different life now.

"We do have to earn our keep these days," says the former chartered accountant of the spouses of the houses. They no longer bring Almina-sized dowries into their marriages. "We can't lounge about; we must contribute."

And that she does. She gives countless interviews; writes books; supervises a staff of still-substantial size; oversees the house as wedding, conference and filming venue; and maintains the house so the roof doesn't leak and the important rooms are tour-worthy. That's her job, but her avocation is her 12-year-old son, Edward; her dogs; her husband (the 8th Earl of Carnarvon, called "Geordie," a godson of the Queen); and gardening. "We're both huge gardeners." she says. "Geordie's always lost in the seed catalogues. I just need to speak of an idea, and just like that he's got it done for me."

Highclere's 1,000 acres of stunningly beautiful rolling hills are classed an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty (helped along early on by Capability Brown, 18th-century landscape architect to the lords). Breathtaking Cedars of Lebanon, planted from seedlings almost 250 years ago, supply the lowlying branches that frame many outdoor Downton scenes.

The family lives part-time in the Castle (her hairspray and lotions sit on a dressing table in a bedroom meant to be used for shooting) and part-time in a house on the grounds, where "we have a trampoline, rabbits, our dogs and a private garden."

The Carnarvons move out of the big house when Downton is filming. "I decided, if we were going to [participate in Downton], we would do it all the way," Lady C says. They've allowed the production to use most rooms, furniture, paintings and accessories. "The more valuable pieces, such as Napoleon's desk and chair, got put away for fear of damage. The red sofas are ours, the desks, the tables, the pianos - they're all real."

And family life for the Carnarvons seems very real, too: It's all about friends and family. "What I enjoy most about the house, is being able to entertain," Lady C says.

"It's a lovely, lovely thing, to have new friends and old friends to stay for the weekend. Sitting over supper is one thing, but when we end up nattering over a leisurely breakfast, when no one has to run off, that is really the best."

And then, she runs off to fetch me something else again. "Just hold on while I find Candice," she says, "Can-DEECE!!"

- Highclere is eight kilometres south of Newbury, a comfortable hour's train ride from Paddington Station in London (britrail.com). Do not take the train via Reading; it necessitates a 30-minute bus transfer to Newbury.

- Taxi from Newbury Station (not the Newbury Racecourse stop) to Highclere is about £24 plus tip and takes about 20 minutes. On return, there will usually be taxis waiting, or the Highclere ticket office can call one if you don't have a phone.

- Driving takes about two hours, west from London along the M4 and A34.

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